


A Stream of Light

by aquietdin



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Gen, Patch 2.0: A Realm Reborn Spoilers, various povs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26303518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquietdin/pseuds/aquietdin
Summary: She’d arrived in Ul’dah three moons ago just wanting to make decent gil. Now the fate of the realm was weighing more and more heavily upon her, with several lives potentially hanging on her every move. It wasexhausting.[Snippets of my WoL Elora and her journey through ARR's storyline.]
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. The Scions

It had been many years since the Scions had accepted a new member into their ranks. An excitement buzzed within the solar; Yda bounced on her heels, Y’shtola’s lips curved upward in a pleased grin, even Urianger looked the slightest bit less stoic. Certainly a momentous day, though what would come of it in the long haul depended on the woman in question.

Elora was her name, though Thancred could not speak much else about her aside from what he’d witnessed. Small in stature as she was, the miqo’te had more than proven her worth in battle. Her temperament, however, was something of a sticking point - she had a countenance that would make even a grizzled mercenary flinch away, her face pinched in a perpetual scowl. He would not believe she had come to the aid of that poor refugee, or any of her other deeds, had he not seen them with his own eyes.

“Will you join us?” Minfilia asked of her.

Elora’s expression did not change. “I will.”

Yda all but cheered aloud.

“Wonderful!” Minfilia said. “Welcome to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, Elora. I hope that in time, you will come to think of us as family.”

The change was so subtle, he would have missed it entirely if he’d not been tracking her every movement. Elora’s ears flattened back against her head every so slightly, her shoulders raised, her frown deepened. She bristled in place as would a cornered animal. And just as quickly as it came, it was gone, and none other seemed to take notice.

Thancred frowned.

\-----

After their adjournment, Elora had seen herself out with a promise to return in the morning. So as not to appear to be following, Thancred waited a full minute before exiting the Waking Sands. He found her at the dock, staring up at the clear night sky, glowing bright with stars.

He carefully approached. It would do no good to upset her now, when their alliance was still new and fragile.

“Quite the lovely evening,” he began. One of her ears flicked towards him, but she was otherwise still. “A coin for your thoughts, my lady?”

Her fluffy tail twitched. “Thancred.” She did not look towards him, arms crossed firmly over her chest. “Have you need of me?”

Any response was a good response at this point. “Not a need, but a question, if I may.” Thancred came to a stop with some distance between them. “You seemed less than pleased to join the Scions. Is aught amiss?”

Her ear flicked again, and her eyes tracked to him. “It’s nothing,” she said softly. “I apologize if I was rude.”

She was a veritable wall of stone made flesh - but Thancred already knew this. “Elora,” he tried. “You do not give trust lightly, that much is plain. But if we have done something to offend, I should like to know. Lest we repeat the mistake.”

Elora said nothing for several moments, her body tense as a rod. Then slowly, her arms unfolded to hang at her side.

“In my experience,” she spoke mostly towards the sea. “Those who press the notion of family upon others are those that stand to gain much from blind obedience.”

Thancred blinked, his stomach sinking. He didn’t need to dwell on her words to understand them - Ul’dah was rife with men who took pride in such tactics, enforcing artificial familial devotion in order to better stand on the backs of those they would exploit. A tale as old as time.

“A most unfortunate truth,” he replied. “Perhaps, then, it will set your mind at ease to know that there are no locked doors in the Scions. You are not bound to us, and should you ever find us lacking,” He smiled softly. “None will bar your exit.”

Placing her hands on her hips, Elora huffed. “Good to know.”

Her trust would be hard-earned, it seemed. “And,” he added, “With your power of the Echo, there is naught we could truly hide from you besides.”

She gave him no response, so Thancred shrugged. “But the hour is quite late. We’ve plenty of spare beds within the sands--”

As swift as could be, Elora turned on her heel and began walking away. “I’ve my own lodging.”

Thancred could have almost laughed. It was a worthy attempt. Her boots clicked against the cobble stone as she made for the stairs, but Elora stopped. She turned her head just enough to meet his eye.

“Goodnight, Thancred.”

As she ascended the steps and returned to the Vesper Bay plaza, he allowed himself a small chuckle. No smile, no friendly words, cold and closed - but a small bid goodnight. Thancred made to return to the Sands, shaking his head at himself.

“About as good as I’m like to get, I suppose.”

.


	2. Ifrit

“Pray forgive my lateness!”

Thancred was well out of breath by the time he reached Elora, his throat beginning to burn dry from exertion. Blasted Almalj’aa. If they’d spent an onze of the effort they put into ‘converting’ nonbelievers into a more productive means, they could have rebuilt the entire continent on their own.

He halted just before Elora and grimaced. He’d seen her facing off against the primal Ifrit from afar, and while it looked to him like she’d had the upper hand, the small adventurer had not escaped unscathed. Her armor and clothing bore scorch marks and tears, soot darkened her arms and legs, one of her fluffy ears appeared painfully singed. She turned to face him with an expression hovering between surprise and rage, a bead of sweat tracking a clean line down her dirty face.

She panted, shoulders slumped, her sword and shield lowered. If he could have sufficiently kicked himself, Thancred would have.

“Sir!” A Flame Soldier called. “Amalj’aa on the approach!”

Wiping the sweat from his chin with the back of his hand, Thancred nodded. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion elsewhere.”

Blinking, the fight vanished from Elora’s face. She nodded, sheathing her weapons to break into a run.

They were hardly a stones throw away from the Invisible City when Thancred heard a hearty thump behind him. He turned to find the space empty - until he glanced down, where Elora lay face down in the dirt, unmoving.

“Seven hells.  _ Elora!” _

The Flame Soldiers slid to a halt as he backtracked, turning her over. She was still breathing, thank the Twelve, though her face was flushed with fever. Gathering her up in his arms, Thancred resumed his sprint towards Camp Drybone and to safety.

  
  


\-----

It was the next morning before she awoke.

The healer at camp was nothing but horrified to see her in such a state, and had no shortage of scolding for Thancred, who bore the blame in silence before being shooed from the room. It  _ was _ his fault her condition was grave, no sense in denial. What if he’d been but a moment later? What if one more of those damnable lizard men had stood in his path?

The healer finally allowed him entry as the sun’s first rays peeked over the ridge of camp. Inside the tiny inn room, Elora was propped up on a small mountain of pillows, a tiny clay cup in her hands. Bandaged and clean, her armor replaced with cotton slops, she glanced up at Thancred with a small nod.

He tried without success to not notice the purple blossoming beneath her right eye.

“Good to see you on the mend,” he said softly, taking a seat at the chair beside her bed.

She nodded softly and took a sip from her cup, grimacing. Likely bitter root medicine, he’d swallowed more than his share in his life - vile in flavor, but excellent for soothing even the worst of aches.

He sighed. “I should apologize. Had I know the danger you’d be facing, I would never have let you venture in unaided.”

Elora glanced at him, then rolled her eyes, a gesture he was all too familiar with. “What’s done is done.”

Thancred knew her well enough to know her honesty. She never said what she did not believe. “Still,” he insisted, guilt weighing heavy on his heart. “I should have been there, to fight by your side.”

“And if you had,” she countered, one eyebrow raised high as she looked only at her drink, “You’d be a thrall to Ifrit, as are all else that were present.”

His argument died in his throat.

She was  _ right. _ As much as he’d cursed the Almalj’aa that had slowed his progress, they had effectively saved his life. Gods knew the fate that awaited those poor bastards seduced by the primal’s power, and he could very well have been among them. Only the power of the Echo had protected Elora. Thancred huffed a small laugh.

“An excellent point.”

Elora continued sipping her tea in silence, her injured ear flicking in annoyance at the thick white bandage covering the burn. Where her borrowed tunic had slipped away from her shoulder, Thancred thought he spied a raised line of pale flesh. A scar, no doubt. Was it from her recent battle?

“I should report to Minfilia,” he declared, standing. Her large eyes tracked him as he made to leave, though her expression remained blank. “Shall I see you at the Waking Sands?”

Nodding once, she seemed content to nurse her medicine. Thancred exited the room and the Inn, taking a moment to breathe a weighty sigh of relief.

.


	3. Company

The three Grand Company representatives had been bouncing like excited children as they awaited an answer from Elora. Tataru, bless her, could not contain her joy, and now nearly the entire continent had heard whispers of the great adventurer that felled mighty Ifrit.

He sincerely doubted said adventure cared as much for the attention.

Thancred watched from across the room as Elora shook hands with a representative from Gridania, who beamed as though he’d been given a heaping promotion. The other two company men sagged in visible disappointment before taking their leave, the solar falling quiet.

“The Twin Adder, eh?” He asked, pushing himself from the wall. Elora’s gaze snapped to him, her fingers stilling where she adjusted one of her bracers.

“Yes.” Her expression remained blank.

Thancred shrugged. “A fine company. Though I had hoped you would join with the Immortal Flames, if only to keep you in Ul’dah.”

She raised an eyebrow. Unamused, as always. “And closer to  _ you,  _ I wager your true motivation.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “I cannot hide my intentions from you, my good lady.”

She was quiet for a long moment, her eyes flicking to Louisoix’s staff on the far wall. “...I am ill suited for the desert.”

Frowning, Thancred made a small sound of confusion. “I was under the impression the desert was your lifelong home.”

“And I do not care for it,” She said, her voice low. “Hot days and frigid nights, a colorless landscape, irritating dryness - I can scarcely breathe for the sand that fills my lungs. It is time I left it.”

Blinking, Thancred was a bit taken aback. He’d hardly heard her speak so many words since the day they met, and never before had Elora freely offered anything about herself. A mystery she remained, but he felt a surge of satisfaction, however tiny a morsel he’d been given.

“Then I dearly hope the forest treats you well,” he said, smiling.  _ “You _ may not miss the desert, but be assured it will become ever the more colorless for your absence.”

One corner of her lips ticked. Might he finally be treated to a smile? But she gave him nothing but a nod, adjusting the shield on her back. “I should report to my company.”

Thancred flicked his arm in a small salute. “I shall see you again when the Scions have need of us both. Do be sure to see Ul’dah from time to time - if only to pay a visit to the lovely Momodi.”

Her mouth ticked again. So close to a grin, but not quite. “I will. Until we meet next, Thancred.”

The heels of her boots clicked against the stone as she left. Thancred shook his head, and went about his business.

.


	4. A Strange Trinket

After weeks in the blissful tranquility of Gridania’s forests, a return to Thanalan was not a favorable idea. Hot sand, hotter sun, her chocobo porter squawking noisily under her as she rode to Vesper Bay. Elora was soothed only by knowing she could speak with the other Scions, a group that had somehow defied all logic and won her trust.

A band of misfits, to be certain. But pleasant company all the same.

The sun was setting over Vesper Bay as she arrived, dropping her chocobo off at the keep and tossing a coin into the attendant’s jar as a tip. A small detour to a food merchant to quench her parched throat with a flagon of mint lassi, then straight to the Waking Sands as the sun dipped towards the sea.

The members of her order - a family, as they called themselves - greeted Elora cheerfully. Yda exuded joy, as was her nature, while Papalymo served as the rope that kept her earthbound. A charming pair they made. Urianger stood silent and still as a statue, stoicism personified, while Minfilia and Y’shtola poised themselves with dignified grace. And then there was…

Elora’s eyes snapped to Thancred, holding on his face for the briefest moment before dipping to his neck. Below his white woven collar sat a strange necklace, three black jewels that glittered from the hollow of his throat. She had never seen him wear such a thing, and as simple as his garb tended to be, the gaudy trinket stood out in glaring evidence.

She raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t appear to notice. Minfilia called her attention, drawing her eyes away and her mind to the mission at hand.

At the news of returning to Gridania, even if it meant investigating another Primal, Elora felt some of her tension ease. Already she missed the scent of damp earth and wood, and the invitation received from the Lancer’s Guild would need to be addressed besides. As the group disbanded to make for their respective posts, Elora caught Thancred’s attention.

“You have need of me?” He asked with his usual flair. A strangeness echoed in his voice that her keen ears caught, so very faint, but surely there.

Elora weighed her options of approach. Direct seemed the best way. “An odd necklace, that.”

One of Thancred’s hands rose to softly touch the center gem. “An amulet of protection. Hopefully it will serve me well.”

She glanced from the jewel to his eyes several times. Something was amiss, it hovered on the edge of recognition. An impulse struck to pull the necklace from his body and see what happened, but there was no sense in causing undue tensions. It was entirely possible that some distance from the man had distorted her perception of him, nothing more. And yet…

“See that it does,” Elora said slowly. “Or mayhaps you should return it to the vendor and reclaim your coin.”

He smiled in his wry way, then rounded her to make for the door. Elora’s ear flicked as he moved, watching his back as he exited the Waking Sands.

.


	5. Burial Rites

The ordeal of Titan had stoked Elora’s irritation to its limits. However gracious the hosts of Costa Del Sol were in their celebration of her victory over the primal, it did not change how many pointless days she spent to make it happen. The fate of the continent was at stake, and the only woman capable of slaying their aggressor was made to be an  _ errand girl, _ fliting this way and that to gather bottles of expensive wine and packages of foul cheese to feed decadent mouths that had never known hunger. As she rode back to Vesper Bay - on her own chocobo this time - her lance bounced against her back. She wanted nothing more than to see her companions, have a stiff drink, and a long sleep.

Apparently such a small luxury was too much to ask.

The scent of blood was thick inside the Waking Sands, several corpses still clinging to warmth. It had been some time since Elora was witness to such wonton violence, and she had not been eager to revisit such memories. She held Noraxia’s hand as the delicate Sylph’s life faded, the Echo playing a vision of the attack that left her feeling ill.

Elora stumbled from the Waking Sands in a daze, went straight to the food vendor, and slapped coin on his counter in exchange for a pony of bitter brandy. The alcohol tasted foul and burned her throat, but she couldn’t see to her current situation while entirely sober.

She wasn’t sure if it was the cheap drink that caused her terrible nausea, or if it was hauling corpse after corpse to a wagon as onlookers whispered among themselves. The last body remaining was that of poor Noraxia, her leaves wilting in the desert sun. Elora bit down hard on her lip as she wrapped the tiny Sylph in cotton cloth, intent on delivering her to her fellows in the Shroud.

\-----

With Noraxia’s burial rites attended to, Elora caught the first airship back to Ul’dah. There were very few she could trust now.

Dusk was long past as the airship landed at the Steps of Nald, the desert air desperately clutching at the warmth of day as the first stars began peeking through the deep blue of the darkening sky. Ul’dah’s corridors and alleys were thinned of crowds, many either retiring to their homes or venturing to pubs and the like. Ignoring her mounting fatigue, Elora strode briskly to the Quicksand, relieved to find it largely devoid of patrons.

Momodi’s head snapped up from her desk as Elora approached. She motioned to nearby Hyur.

“Oi, take my post, I’ve some important business.” Momodi disappeared from view as she stepped from the chair behind the counter, then came bustling out, reaching for Elora’s hand. “This way, dear, with me.”

Elora was too tired to do anything other than let herself be led, Momodi’s tiny fingers gripping hers with surprising strength to pull her through several doors and into a well furnished apartment. Elora was directed to a plush couch as her hostess rushed for a cabinet.

“I heard the news. Twelve preserve us, everyone heard.” Momodi returned to her side, carrying intricate glass goblets and a dusty cruet of amber liquid. She poured two glasses, handing one to Elora before bringing her own to her lips and tossing back its contents. “Gods, Elora, how are you fairing?”

Staring at her glass of liqueur, Elora’s tail twitched. She hadn’t slept in two days, nor had a proper meal in at least three. Her arms were weak from digging graves, her back yet ached from a blow delivered by Titan. Her head throbbed, her ears rang. She felt a rising urge to vomit.

“I’ll manage.”

Momodi poured herself another glass. “Stay here tonight, dear. You look ready to collapse.”

She had yet to touch her drink. She didn’t know if something that strong was wise with the way her stomach was rolling, a single detail repeating in her mind: the strange jewel that had been around Thancred’s neck, and the sensation that something about him was amiss. The location of the Scion’s stronghold was a closely guarded secret. It was no blind invasion - whoever attacked knew  _ exactly _ where to find them. Elora did not put much stock into coincidence.

“Those that weren’t slain were taken captive by an imperial contingent. Momodi,” Elora’s voice was unsteady from days of toil. “Have you heard from Thancred as of late?”

The lalafell stilled. “I have not. Been nigh on two weeks since he’s shown his face.”

With a deep, tired sigh, Elora set her drink on a nearby table, unable to take a sip. “He wasn’t among the corpses I pulled from the Sands, nor those taken prisoner.”

Momodi’s face darkened. “With any luck, he was off on a mission of some sort.”

Elora rubbed her face. She was utterly filthy. “We can only hope.”

A clock ticked in the room, the only sound to break the silence. Momodi’s glass clicked against the table as she set it down. “You need rest, Elora, you’re in no shape to keep on. I’ll fetch you some clean clothes, so wash up and get some sleep.”

She could only nod. Momodi left her, returning once with a stack of cotton clothing and a few toiletries, then bid her goodnight. Elora sat on the couch for a long while, staring at the patterns in the carpet before managing to bath herself and curl up in the bed, shivering against her memories.

.


	6. Ishgard

The chill of a desert night had been one aspect Elora had disliked most of the landscape. Even the most seasoned adventurers risked death by venturing into the cold unprepared, the dry winds capable of stripping a man of all his warmth in a matter of hours, and those unaccustomed to the drastic temperature shift as the sun set were easily set upon by illness. Indeed, the desert of Thanalan was not for the faint of heart.

As another blast of snow nearly pushed her from her chocobo’s back, Elora realized she’d trade this for a night in the desert any day. This was a whole new manner of cold, a damp bite that went straight through her clothes and to her bones. Her teeth chattered, her hands and feet had long since lost feeling. She was, in short, utterly miserable.

The light that reflected off the snow had nearly blinded her at the beginning of her trek, but now that the sun had fallen, a thick storm blotted out all but the brightest blazes. She’d taken to navigating to Camp Dragonhead mostly by sound - listening for the crunch of her chocobo’s claws on the packed gravel of the path and steering him whenever the pitch changed to the soft press of snow.

The blurred glow of a distant Aetheryte crystal might have been the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

Few lingered in the open areas of the camp as the wind continued to swell. Elora saw her chocobo to a stable, paying the fee as the keep directed her to where she might find her next query. Clutching her woolen cloak that had, in all honesty, offered little protection, she walked on numb legs to the stone tower decorated with unicorn banners. Pushing open the giant wooden doors took nearly all of her strength.

Several elezen turned to look as she quickly shut the door to seal out the cold.

The sensation of warmth in the room was like sweet honey, a fire crackling in a wide hearth. Every eye in the room tracked her movement as she stepped forward into the light, pulling back her hood and trying desperately not to shiver.

“Traveler,” one elezen said, “Welcome! Pray tell, what business have you at Camp Dragonhead?”

Elora sniffled. “I s-seek Lord Haurchefant of H-House Fortemps.”

The same elezen smiled wide, rounding the large table at the center of the room to approach. “And you have found him. How might I be of service, my lady?”

She nearly had to crane her neck just to see his face. Blasted elezen, why were they all so godsdamned _tall?_ The letter of introduction from Francel was carefully tucked inside her jacket, but with her fingers numb, Elora fumbled to retrieve it.

“Goodness, but you are frozen through.” Haurchefant ushered her towards the fire, to which she breathlessly stumbled. A chair was pulled towards the embers and Elora more fell into it than sat. “Bring hot broth,” he called.

The heat from the fire was so intense, had she been of weaker form she may have fainted on the spot. As it was she swayed lightly in the chair, brought back to her senses as someone touched her shoulder. Haurchefant offered a mug, which Elora took in her trembling hands and drank greedily from. Bone broth, by the taste, rich and heavy, sliding down her throat to spread warmth all through her.

Had the circumstances been different, she would have hesitated to take food and drink from a stranger. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Haurchefant knelt before her chair, his eyes level with hers. Finally able to see him properly, she cataloged the leader of the camp. Sharp features and deep set eyes, framed by a head of fine silvery hair. The lord of House Fortemps looked all the part a nobleman, if not for his carefree grin. Now that she could feel her limbs again, Elora reached for the letter and presented it.

As she continued to nurse her mug of broth, Haurchefant read the letter, his face darkening as he stood. “Most serious charges have been brought against Francel, but surely they are baseless. Thank you for bearing this news to me.”

The airship. She needed to inquire about the airship, the entire reason she’d journeyed through one of the harshest landscapes in Eorzea. But with her body thawed, sleep loomed heavy over Elora, her ears drooping.

“You are exhausted.” Haurchefant’s voice was very close. Opening eyes she hadn’t realized had slid shut, Elora found him kneeling before her once again, reaching forward to cup her hands in his, pressing her fingers against the warmth of the mug. “Elora, yes? Stay this night and continue on the morrow. Coerthas is a harsh territory since the Calamity struck, and can sap the strength from even the hardiest of men.” He stood and motioned to another. “Prepare a chamber for our visitor, let no comfort be spared. And search for a spare set of warm inners that might fit a miqo’te.”

Elora’s will to remain awake was quickly fading. She dozed in the chair for some time, the mug taken from her hands. She lightly dreamed of the warm desert sun.

“Ah, ‘twould do you little good to sleep here.”

With a sharp inhale Elora came back to herself. The embers of the fire had grown dim, Haurchefant stood tall over her.

“Come,” he said softly, offering his elbow. “A proper bed awaits you.”

It was difficult to stand, every muscle protesting the movement. Elora all but hung from Haurchefant’s arm as he led her, struggling to keep her wits. She knew nothing of this man, he could have been leading her to a cliff for all she could tell. She had to be able to get away if needs be, but the fog of weariness slowed her mind and body.

No cliff came, only another wooden door, opened to reveal a small chamber. A fire burned in the small hearth, spreading heat over a modest sized bed piled high with blankets and furs. On a small table sat a basin of water and a plate of bread, cheese, and dried meat. Outside the single window, the storm howled. Haurchefant released her arm and gestured at the amenities.

“Pray be at ease, friend. You are my guest. Should you have need of anything, call to the guard down the hall.”

Elora’s head cleared just enough to respond. “You are quite generous in your hospitality.”

Haurchefant smiled softly. “Such is my nature. I bid you goodnight, dear lady. May you rest well.”

Then he left, the door clicking shut. Elora stared at it for several seconds before pulling the heavy iron lock into place.

She removed her armor, ate a few morsels of food, and washed her face before slipping under the blankets of the bed. The sheets were soft, if a bit stale, and the crackling of the fire quickly lulled her. Ishgard had not been a kind place, but perhaps she had found at least one good soul.

.


	7. A Fox in the Henhouse

Though the wind was gentle, it was still sharply cold against Elora’s face as she rode fast to Dragonhead, with Yda and Y’shtola close by. A persistent headache had formed long before the battle with Garuda, and now it beat steady between her temples, making her tail twitch in irritation. The woven underclothes Haurchefant had so generously provided made trekking through Coerthas slightly less terrible, but the difference it made to the overall situation was akin to smearing a bit of salve on a severed limb.

She’d arrived in Ul’dah three moons ago just wanting to make decent gil. Now the fate of the realm was weighing more and more heavily upon her, with several lives potentially hanging on her every move. It was  _ exhausting. _

Portelaine of the Observatorium was far more amenable than he had been upon her first visit, but the foul taste of what passed for hospitality in Ishgard lingered - their insipid persistence upon purity of faith was tiring at best. Elora approached with hesitation, however cheerful his greeting.

“Your friends have been taken hostage?” The elezen stood from his chair. “We’ve recent reports of captives being led into Castrum Centri. A hyuran woman, an elezen man, and two lalafell - one male, one female.”

That was only four. Elora frowned. “Any word of a hyuran man among them?”

Portelaine shook his head. “None, according to our scouts.”

Yda was overjoyed to learn their comrades yet lived, but Elora felt her stomach sink as Portelaine went on to describe two escapees that could only have been Biggs and Wedge. As heartening as it was to learn of their survival, several alarming pieces to the puzzle of the attack on the Waking Sands were clicking into solemn place. As they exited into the blustery cold, Y’shtola caught Elora’s attention.

“Is aught amiss?”

She frowned deeply as the wind whipped her hair about. “Thancred.”

Shivering, Yda tipped her head. “Thancred?”

“He was not among the prisoners seen by the scouts, nor was he present in the Sands at the time of the attack.” Elora explained, keeping her voice low. “His body was not among the corpses retrieved. And no one has seen hide nor hair of him in more than a week.”

Y’shtola’s eyes narrowed. “You suspect him of treachery?”

“Thancred would never!” Yda cried.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Y’shtola added. “Many years have I known the man. He is no traitor.”

Elora huffed, her breath fogging before her face. “Perhaps. But what if someone  _ made _ a traitor of him?” She pointed to her own throat. “Did you not see the necklace he wore when last we met? Did it not seem odd to you?”

Yda tapped her chin, Y’shtola’s eyes widened. “I paid it no mind,” the conjurer hummed to herself.

Sighing, Elora rubbed at the bridge of her nose, which throbbed painfully. “Too much is lining up to be mere coincidence. The Waking Sand’s location was a carefully guarded secret, yet the imperials knew it exactly - as though they had  _ help.” _

Folding her arms over her chest, Y’shtola’s nose wrinkled. “That is a clear possibility. And most alarming.”

Cid chose to speak his mind. “Then we should be wary. Small is our list of allies, ever more so if they can delve into the memories of one of our own.”

Elora drew her cloak in and nodded. She was so tired, every part of her ached. But Biggs and Wedge would not be left to suffer, and neither would the rest of her friends. There was work yet to be done.

.


	8. Rescue

The rescue mission had been anything but straightforward. Yet against all odds, they’d managed to free the captured members of the Scions with a three-man team and a bit of backup. How in the seven hells they were all alive and accounted for was a miracle.

Glancing down from Cid’s airship, Elora grit her teeth. In some secret part of her, she’d hoped to find Thancred among the other hostages, but the realist in her knew otherwise. Cold was not a word she would have ever thought to associate with the man, but as Lahabrea stared out at her through Thancred’s eyes, there was no other way to describe it.

The Ascian laughed, a hollow, distorted sound, traces of Thancred’s voice hovering on the edges. It made her feel sick.

The din of battle and blaring alarms faded into the distance as Cid directed the airship away. The mood was somber, most of the Scions taking a seat on the floor. Tataru curled in on herself and sniffled. Elora could have joined them for her weariness, but there was still fight in her blood, making her pace restlessly as Alphinaud seethed.

“The enemy was right beside me,” he lamented. “And I never even suspected!”

Elora curled her hands until her nails bit into her palm. She caught Y’shtola’s eyes.

“You were right,” Y’shtola whispered.

Shaking her head, Elora ignored the way the wind dried her eyes. “Would that I hadn’t been.”

\-----

  
  


With a clatter, the lance slipped from her hands. Drained in every way, Elora surveyed her surroundings.  Castrum Meridianum crumbled and burned around her, the remains of the base and what little scrap of the Ultima Weapon lingered smoldering. Explosions shook the earth, the smoke began to choke her, the taste of blood was strong on her tongue. She supposed she’d won, but it felt hollow.

She briefly wondered if it would be too much to ask Hydaelyn for a second miracle.

Thancred’s body lay still, the bane of Lahabrea banished from him, his face a touch thinner than she remembered. Elora’s boots scuffed on the scorched ground as she stumbled to his side, dropping to her knees. He yet breathed, though it was for naught. Surrounded by fire, the sky bursting with charges, no allies in sight. Not strong enough to carry a grown man, too exhausted to run and unwilling to leave him behind. There would be no escape for them. She gathered him up in her arms as best she could in her weakened state.

“I suppose this is it, friend.” She said softly.

The stone under her legs nearly cracked with the force of the magitek armor landing nearby.

It was as close to a miracle as she was going to get.

The stomping of the hulking machine exacerbated the pain in her head, making her vision sway as she steered it through corridors. The heat of destruction was at her back, singing the fur at the tips of her ears, threatening to swallow them if she dared to slow. Elora pushed at the controls. She would not die here, not in this manner, not after all she’d suffered. She  _ refused. _

As the magitek armor burst through to fresh air and safety, she felt something in her ribs give, a stabbing pain shooting through her body and stealing her breath away. The sounds of her allies cheering was distant as she heaved herself from the seat of the armor, nearly falling to the ground, holding herself up enough to reach for one of Thancred’s feet. “Help me,” she rasped.

It was Raubahn that came to her aid, easily plucking Thancred from the back of the magitek armor and lowering him to the dry grass. He was so very pale. Y’shtola began casting spells with fervor upon them both, knitting together the torn flesh of Elora’s wounds.

With what little strength remained in her body, Elora ripped the last bits of the necklace away. “Thancred,” she urged, pushing the hair from his eyes. “Thancred. Wake up.”

All were still, waiting.

Then he stirred, ever so slightly, brows furrowing together. His eyes fluttered open slowly, tracking to Elora, where she crouched over him.

He opened his mouth to speak, a tiny croaking sound pushing past his cracked lips. “You… you knew,” Thancred whispered, his voice raw and weak. “The necklace. You knew… it wasn’t me.”

Exhaustion gave way to mania, and Elora barked out a laugh that she couldn’t have hoped to stop. “Not even  _ you _ would wear such a godsawful tacky thing.”

Thancred blinked, then his face contorted in utter delight. “...That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile.”

Had she the strength, Elora might have smacked him. As it was her grin persisted, impossible to suppress as she shook her head. “Don’t get used to it.”

With a tiny, silent laugh, his eyes fluttered shut, his head lolling to the side. His body softly rose and fell with his breath in a steady rhythm, and Elora felt herself sag under the weight of relief. The world tilted and faded into darkness as she slumped against Thancred’s chest. A long nap sounded very, very good.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for 2.0! What a ride that was. Thanks for reading! I post artwork, screenshots, and general yelling about the game on my [fandom twitter.](https://twitter.com/elorabrovodah) You can also find chapter one of this fic in comic form [here!](https://twitter.com/p_cucumbers/status/1300786026890305540)


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